


once the soul awakens

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Kissing, Resolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: The annual winter holiday event held by the chairwoman of the university’s council is the most attended party of the year. Even by those who do not frequent social gatherings throughout the rest of the year.Hannibal’s eyes survey the crowd, noting known faces and pushing them aside in an instant, searching for one face only.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	once the soul awakens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



> Bedelia's and Hannibal's daemons courtesy of Caissa's "when the lion is in the room" fic. Bedelia's daemon's name comes from Egyptian mythology and Hannibal's from Lithuanian (the bee goddess). Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox!

The string of lit houses passes in front of his eyes from the window of the moving car. Sitting calmly in the back seat, Hannibal watches the brightly coloured Christmas décor in all its tastelessness. The thin smiles of countless plastic snowmen, bears and other menagerie turn into one blurred line as the car moves swiftly through the outskirts of Baltimore, its usual quiet elegance foregone in favour of second rate Whoville. The honey furred lioness sitting next to Hannibal tilts her head and lets out a low growl. It startles the driver’s ferret daemon, rising its head in alarm from the front dash, but it quickly returns its gaze to the front window, monitoring the road ahead.

“Yes, it is garish,” Hannibal agrees with his daemon’s assessment of the view while she lies down to rest her head on his thigh.

Luckily, they are not subjected to the offending sights much longer as the car finally reaches its destination and turns into the driveway of the largest house in the neighbourhood. Its towering size indicates its wealthy status and it reflects in the standard of the decorations, or at least, it has tried.

Hannibal and his daemon step out onto driveway, their footsteps imprinting on freshly fallen, soft coat of snow. Hannibal scrutinises the silver reindeer ready to take flight from the side road and the overbearing quantity of silver and white lights stringed up across the front of the house, not too subtly reminding each arriving guest of the colour theme for the evening. It might have been expensive, but it does not make it any less kitsch. Austėja tilts her head up to look at Hannibal, silently questioning their purpose here.

“Tis the season,” Hannibal gives a vague reply and starts to walk towards the front door, snow crunching beneath his boots with Austėja moving silently next to him, holding back any further opinion, at least for now.

As the door opens, they are welcomed by a porter, his dog daemon sitting poised next to the coat rack, the hubbub of merriment echoing all the way to the hallway. Hannibal lets the man take his coat and follows the sound, like a rising beacon to their journey’s end.

They enter the dining room, currently transformed into a version of winter wonderland, even if a tad too gaudy. Silver fairy lights are strung alongside the walls, silver garlands droop from one chandelier to another with a massive silver Christmas tree standing in all its shine next to the fireplace. Framed by all that sparkling trinkets are numerous guests, looking sombre by comparison in their mostly black and white attires.

“Hannibal, welcome, _welcome_ ,” a plump woman emerges from the flock of people, an all too tight silver dress draped around her curves, her breasts on a verge of spilling out of its confinement.

Hannibal reaches his hand to greet her, but she is quicker, wrapping her hand firmly around his forearm and squeezing it tightly, the great many rings adoring her stout fingers clinking loudly.

“Good evening, Mrs Harte,” Hannibal tries to focus on proper pleasantries even if the woman’s overly forward manner makes it hard for him to remain stoic, “A most wonderfully planned evening, as always.”

“Oh, that is nothing,” the woman states with false modesty, finally releasing her hold of Hannibal, still the sensation of her rings imprinting on his arm lingers unpleasantly, “I am delighted that you have joined us,” she adds with a puckish smile, one that makes Austėja’s back arch ever so slightly with unease.

The woman’s own pug daemon rests under her other arm, a matching set of silver antlers on his head, making him look more like just another accessory than a daemon.

_Dressing up daemons, how vulgar._

Austėja’s tense demeanour mirrors Hannibal’s distaste, but the woman, and her daemon, fail to notice.

“Well, I hope you will have a fun evening,” the woman leans forward again, but, luckily, makes no further attempt to grasp at Hannibal, “There are _many_ mistletoes hanging around this year,” she adds with a playful wink.

Hannibal tries to disregard the obvious implication of her words, together with an instant question of how does the green match with her colour palette. With another wink and a wave of her bejewelled hand, the woman walks away to welcome more arriving guests.

Hannibal and Austėja are left alone; gathering his thoughts anew, Hannibal takes a glass of champagne from a tray of a passing waiter. He empties it in one mouthful, a rather poor vintage. He returns the empty glass to a nearby table and sets to mingle amongst the patrons. His presence strikes instant attentiveness and soon, he finds himself surrounded by great many people, all eager to talk to him. Some, no doubt, hoping for more, Hannibal notes the increasingly flirtatious glances of several patrons and their daemons attempts to engage Austėja, but to no avail. She remains resting still next to Hannibal, occasionally shifting from one side to another, barely containing her distaste for the mundane nature of conversations around them. While one group of his admirers is being replaced by another, she glances up at Hannibal with ennui.

“Is this really necessary?” she asks.

“I enjoy social gathering, as you know,” Hannibal retorts.

“But that is not why we’re here tonight,” Austėja replies calmly.

Frowning, Hannibal nods in silent concurrence; there is no need to deny the obvious truth.

The annual winter holiday event held by the chairwoman of the university’s council is the most attended party of the year. Even by those who do not frequent social gatherings throughout the rest of the year.

Hannibal’s eyes survey the crowd, noting known faces and pushing them aside in an instant, searching for one face only.

“Perhaps, she is not here,” Austėja voices his growing concern with a low growl; a gleam of dismay reflects briefly in Hannibal’s keen gaze.

“Perhaps,” he continues his search, ignoring the conversations around him, eyes moving more quickly through the gathering now, his senses sharpen, his predatory instincts employed to a new pursuit.

His heart gives an involuntary jolt when he finally notices a familiar glimpse of golden hair, shining even brighter than usual against the backdrop of all white and silver. Excusing himself and moving away from the circle of guests, Hannibal stands closer to get a better view.

Toying with an empty glass in her hand, Bedelia Du Maurier is talking to a new surgical resident; the man appears to be very eager to impress her. And Hannibal does not blame him; wearing a long white dress of elegant satin with a low cut in the back, her hair falling in carefully arranged locks over her shoulders, she overshadows every other woman and man in the room, many dripping in jewels and unnecessary frills.

Austėja purrs softly next to Hannibal as he continues to stare at his psychiatrist and her current company. The conversation seems to be largely one sided with the man’s uninterrupted speech and Bedelia smiling politely ever so often.

_She is not interested._

Hannibal notes with strange satisfaction, but the same understanding fails to be registered within the mind of the young doctor. His gecko daemon peeks curiously from his shoulder, trying to catch Bedelia’s daemon attention. Hannibal’s eyes fall on the large black jaguar, aptly named Osiris, sitting calmly by her side; he tries to note any reaction on his part, but the daemon retains full control, betraying no emotions, just like her. Hannibal smiles to himself.

_They are both magnificent._

At last, Bedelia appears to have had enough of the man’s advances and she lifts her empty glass, tilting her head in a goodbye. Before the man gets a chance to protest or attempt to woo her further, the jaguar and her turn to walk away. Hannibal watches them as they move, both so elegant in their steps; a petite blonde woman in white and her powerful daemon in shining black, so different, yet fitting so perfectly together.

“What are you waiting for?” Austėja asks, slightly impatient with his unusual indecisiveness.

Hannibal frowns at the disruption of his thoughts.

“I am not waiting for anything.”

“So why don’t you go talk to her?” Austėja persists, head nudging against Hannibal’s leg.

“I do not need help in obtaining dates,” he rejoins, rather sharply, not enjoying being consider hapless. He has been capable of securing any lover that stirred his interest.

“Dates, no,” Austėja responds calmly, not disturbed by his tone, “ _Her_ , yes.”

Hannibal’s lips press tightly, and he offers no respond.

“Are you going to join her?” Austėja presses Hannibal on as he watches Bedelia walk towards the side table to be rid of her empty glass.

“It may be that she wants to be alone,” Hannibal responds with atypical for him restrain, making his daemon look up at him with justified concern.

“She will not be alone for long,” Austėja retorts, her gaze returning towards Bedelia.

Hannibal sighs; he cannot argue with the plain truth. Undoubtedly, another suitor, or two, will swiftly jump at the opportunity to replace her empty glass. Not that she needs anyone to do that for her. He smiles again, looking at her with all her quiet strength, and with her daemon standing protectively by her side. Hannibal does not blame him; he too would do anything to safeguard her.

She is not easily impressed, Hannibal knows it well, which makes him want to impress her all the more. And most importantly, he wants to be the only one who ever does. With that determined thought, he finally moves from his spot, Austėja trotting beside him, more energetically than usual.

“Good evening, Doctor Du Maurier,” he announces his arrival as they approach the solitary standing woman.

“Hello Hannibal,” Bedelia and her daemon turn towards the newly arrived company.

Austėja’s ears perk up at once as her gaze falls on Osiris and Hannibal is certain he saw Bedelia’s daemon respond with a similar interest, a brief shift in his posture, before the jaguar settles back into his vigilant composure.

“I was wondering if you were going to say good evening or simply carry on staring from the distance,” Bedelia continues, her brilliant eyes focusing on him with an amused inquiry.

Hannibal’s skin burns pleasantly under the stare of her scrutiny. He luxuriates in the sensation, all too familiar from countless hours of their sessions, but now the feeling is somehow rawer and more exhilarating, removed from the structured nature of the therapy meetings.

“I did not want to interrupt your conversation,” Hannibal takes her challenge on, “The new registrar seemed very interested in the exchange,” he adds, watching her reaction. She continues to survey him with her gas flame eyes, burning through his carefully constructed façade with ease.

“He was certainly _eager_ ,” she responds with a cockish half smile.

“ _Too_ eager?” Hannibal asks, unable to stop himself, ready to become ash under her flames.

“A tad,” Bedelia tilts her head and so does her daemon, studying Hannibal as closely as Bedelia.

“You cannot really blame him. You look beyond stunning, Doctor,” Hannibal risks a compliment and is thrilled when Bedelia’s puckish smile turns into a gentler one.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she inclines her head once, an instant gleam in her eyes and a bud of a blush on her cheeks, making his heart give a joyous thump against his rib cage.

“Can I refresh your drink?” he chances pushing his luck, motioning to the discarded glass.

The corner of Bedelia’s lips now presses together as though in deliberation. The gesture makes Hannibal tense with anticipation of needed approval, Austėja stepping tautly around his legs, looking eagerly towards Osiris, still sitting calmly by Bedelia’s side.

“Thank you but-,” her lips twitch once as if finally ready to deliver the dreaded rejection, “the quality of the drinks leaves a lot to be desired,” she concludes, to his relief, the dismissal directed not at him but at the refreshments.

“I agree,” Hannibal smiles in appreciation of her, as excellent as his, taste, “Perhaps I can find something more delectable.”

Bedelia raises her eyebrow in instant intrigue with Osiris’ paws shifting in his spot, betraying her interest further. And it is more than enough for Hannibal.

“I will return shortly,” he promises with a solemn nod of his head, then turns away and moves towards the crowded centre of the room.

He manoeuvres his path through the assemblage of patrons with a cat-like ease, perfectly mirroring his daemon’s soundless steps. Austėja remains equally unbothered by the congested space. He finds the bar in the far corner of the room with a keen looking bartender ready to refill any glass while guarding the hostess’ private supplies. It does not take Hannibal long to charm his way into the locked reserve. He can still hear the woman’s bee-eater daemon chirping excitingly as he walks away with two glasses of cognac, a surprisingly decent brand. The liquid swirls in the glass, defying the colours of the evening with its golden shine, a fitting addition to its covert origins.

“What was that about being too eager?” Austėja comments as they prompt their way back to where Bedelia awaits.

Her daemon sits up straighter as they emerge from the gathering, head tilted with curiosity. Hannibal wastes no time in offering Bedelia the glass and watches with delight as she inhales the aroma of the liquor with obvious appreciation before taking a savouring sip. Hannibal follows suit.

“Definitely more delectable,” she comments with another, grateful, incline of her head, then takes another mouthful of her drink, “That was-”

“Eager?” Hannibal interjects, remembering his daemon’s words.

“Welcomed,” she responds softly with a matching smile, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Hannibal beams at her praise, its taste lingering stronger than any liquor, making him pleasantly heady.

And he is not the only one giving into indulgence. The chatter of voices behind them increases with a rising accompaniment of more and more glasses clinking. Suddenly, few jarring notes of an unrecognisable tune ascent above the hubbub as someone finds the piano, hiding in the corner, undisturbed, until now. The melody continues, but the quality does not improve. Hannibal thinks he can recognise notes of White Christmas, but barely. Bedelia’s daemon arches his back in discomfort.

“Would you like to take a walk?” Hannibal suggests, seizing an opportunity to spend some time alone with Bedelia.

“Yes, thank you,” she agrees, another grating note reflected in the crease between her eyebrows.

Hannibal reliefs her of the now empty glass and leads them both away from the dining room and into the adjacent hall.

The holiday cheer has spread here as well with strings of tinsel adorning its length, strangely in keeping with the multiple paintings markings the walls. Hannibal raises an incredulous eyebrow at the selection of art on display; most painting are portraying dogs. A smile passes through Bedelia’s lips when she notes his reaction.

Walking by his side, Austėja takes a few strides forward, and soon enough, Osiris joins, first tentative steps turning into playful jumps. Hannibal watches, mesmerised, as two daemons fall together so seamlessly. They continue walking in silence and Hannibal relishes in the comfortable quietude. The words fill every moment of their sessions, but he always knew they do not need them. Their daemons carry on playing, dashing from one side of the wall to another, acting more like lively kittens, an unexpected shift in their usually collected demeanour. It makes Hannibal feel light, his mind lucid and at ease, as if it were exactly where he belongs.

He knows Bedelia can feel it too.

“I do not want to keep you from the party,” she says after a while, as they venture further down the corridor, the noise of the gathering becoming merely a distant hum, “I am sure your company is missed,” she adds, rather offhandedly, not wanting to appear too eager.

“I do not think so,” Hannibal responds, opting to evade the truth. They were indeed many patrons trying to engage his attention as he made his way across the room. “And this is much more enjoyable,” he adds, all truth this time, shining clearly through his eyes.

Austėja gently nudges Osiris’ head, he does not oppose, letting the contact linger for a brief moment.

“I have always taken you for a more of a social creature,” Bedelia carries on, steering the conversation back to the safe subject of him and attempting to hide the blush reaction to the growing display of fondness between their daemons.

“It is the quality of the company, not the quantity that matters,” he states matter-of-factly, the feeling of cordiality and easement spreading further in his chest. He wants to be engulfed in it completely.

Silence falls anew, the click of Bedelia’s heels being the only sound filing the space around them, both daemons still pouncing playfully. The cats stop as the corridor ends, unsure where to turn next. And Bedelia and Hannibal do as well, standing right behind them. They look out the window at the snow-covered garden in all its peaceful beauty, both overly entranced by the view. Or rather reluctant to return to the party.

“There is some attractiveness to this season after all,” Bedelia speaks suddenly, the severe glamour of the nature bringing out unexpected melancholy in her tone.

“You are not an enthusiast of the holiday season,” Hannibal states, not needing the answer to the obvious fact.

Bedelia chuckles, a strangely sad sound.

“You must be thriving under all the social convention,” she says, her voice sad still.

Hannibal does not respond, his heart leaping out to lessen her burden.

“My sister has invited me to spend Christmas with her, but I think I will decline,” Bedelia admits, fresh line wrinkling her brow, “I am not overly fond of the forced family traditions.”

Now Hannibal’s face dims, the mixture of his own stirred grief and a deep desire to relief hers.

“I am sorry,” Bedelia says, noticing his expression.

“That is quite all right,” Hannibal manages a half smile, “I understand that having a family can be just as difficult as not having one.” His smile falls away just as quickly as it appears.

“You miss them a lot,” she says softly, another fact that needs no confirming. They have spoken about his loss extensively during their weekly hour.

But this is different; there is no clinical detachment in her voice. It is more than just professional curiosity. Hannibal’s heart gives a bittersweet jolt.

“My mother really loved this time of a year,” he speaks with unforeseen tremble in his voice,” Her daemon gave Austėja her name. She loved the strapping form she had settled in.”

“Did she change frequently before settling?” Bedelia asks with fresh interest.

“Not precisely, she has always gravitated towards feline forms,” Hannibal is more than happy to satisfy her curiosity, “Was it the same with Osiris?” he risks an enquiry of his own.

Bedelia falls pensive and Hannibal is certain he has overstepped his place.

“He was changing a lot at times,” she says slowly, as if searching for the appropriate words, “He took much smaller forms.”

Hannibal’s head tilts; it is hard for him to imagine Osiris as anything other than a big cat. The daemon looks up at Bedelia with a silent stare of careful scorn, not daring to reveal more. Bedelia’s lips press into a thin line, pondering the unvoiced displeasure.

“I wanted him to be someone that he was not,” she admits all of the sudden, “Someone that I was not,” she averts her gaze, knowing she has said too much. Osiris’ eyes follow, mirroring her internal regret.

Hannibal’s grief now transforms into anger. He can imagine young Bedelia so easily, trying to be all she was expected to be, proper and compliant. How inconvenient it must have been for her family that her daemon was so apparently unique.

“I am sorry,” he says solemnly, suppressing his disdain for her family.

“For what?” her eyes shine almost defensively as she meets his gaze anew.

“You should never have been forced to be anyone but who you truly are,” Hannibal pronounces with unfeigned conviction.

Austėja steps closer to Osiris once more, pressing herself slightly against his side. Bedelia’s face lights up with immediate comfort, fresh colour in her cheeks.

Now Hannibal turns his gaze away, allowing her to compose herself and her feelings. His gaze lifts and an instant chuckle escapes his lips. Apparently, Mrs Harte has not been exaggerating; there is a mistletoe hanging from the chandelier, just above them.

“What is it?” Bedelia asks, startled by the unforeseen shift in his demeanour. Her gaze goes up, following his, and she stifles a derisive sigh.

Their eyes then meet anew; Hannibal’s eager gleam is met with Bedelia’s slightly alarmed one.

_Surely, she considers this silly._

New restrain takes him aback, but his daemon remains close to Bedelia’s and Osiris rests his head on Austėja’s neck.

_She wants him to kiss her._

Without a second of further consideration, Hannibal leans forward and places a kiss on Bedelia’s lips. Her body responds at once and she returns the caress, pressing herself closer against his body. His hand cradles her cheek as he deepens the kiss. He feels the fullness of their shared breath, the steady beat of her heart matching time with his. He kisses her again and again, unable to get enough of the intoxicating sensation, not wanting to break the connection.

“It appears some traditions are worth preserving,” he murmurs against her lips as they finally pause for breath. He feels lightheaded, the sensation of utter completion surging within him.

Bedelia remains somehow breathless too; he can see in her glossy eyes that the kiss has affected her as well. His fingertips stroke her cheek with continuous tenderness; he wants nothing more than for this moment to linger.

But it is not to be.

A rising babble of voices disturbs their quietude, a clear indication that the party has finally spilled beyond the dining room. Bedelia tenses and disentangles herself from Hannibal’s embrace and her daemon follows, stepping away from Austėja. Hannibal’s euphoria vanishes like bubbles from stale champagne.

“Oh, there you are, Hannibal,” a high-pitched woman’s voice pulls the last curtain on their intimate moment. “We have been looking for you,” the woman steps closer, her macaque daemon peering excitingly from behind her leg, readying herself not to lose any more sight of him.

Hannibal turns towards the approaching circle, a perfectly composed smile on his lips, hoping to be rid of them as soon as possible.

“I have been talking to Doctor Du Maurier,” he says with firmness, bringing attention to the rudeness of such sudden interruption.

He turns his head back to Bedelia with a heartfelt apology, but she is already gone. His heart sinks heavily in his chest. No one else seems to have noticed her rapid departure. Absentmindedly, he allows himself to be pulled back to the group and return to the party. His mind wanders, but his social graces remain impeccable, leaving all other guests none the wiser. Still, his eyes take stock of the room, trying to find Bedelia anew, but she is nowhere to be seen.

“She is gone,” Austėja states the obvious point after another fruitless survey of the crowd.

Hannibal has known it all along. His heart has never felt heavier.

Her skin is still heated, and her lips burn with the persistent sensation of the kiss as she walks briskly back to the dining room. Bedelia focuses hard on her every step, certain that she is not walking in a straight line.

“Why are we rushing?” Osiris asks, stepping calmly next to Bedelia, raised fur on his neck being the only indicator of her perturb, “It was not polite to leave so suddenly.”

Bedelia gives her daemon a pointed side glance.

“I am aware of that,” she responds, the first two words coming out shaky, her mind being as woozy as her body. “I should not have done it,” she presses on, her tone regaining its ice bound firmness, one that allows no objections from anyone.

But her daemon is not just anyone.

“You wanted to,” he says simply and Bedelia’s head swirls anew with a memory of the kiss.

She must refrain herself from reaching her hand to her tingling lips, wanting nothing more than to seal the impression. She does not remember ever being so lost in a kiss.

_Has she ever?_

Osiris tilts his head up to look at her; he does not have to say it. She has not.

“He was right too,” he says instead, shaking his ears once.

“Since when are you taking his side?” Bedelia retorts defensively. She is not used to her daemon speaking positively of someone; his fierce protectiveness has always reflected in his reserve and unforgiving scrutiny towards anyone taking interest in her.

“You are always taking his side,” Osiris responds, visibly amused when the realisation washes over Bedelia in its apparent truth.

Each time they talk, she can understand, _see_ , him like no one else before. Hannibal Lecter and his lioness daemon make her feel unexpectedly safe.

“He means well,” Osiris gives his strangely favourable judgement of Hannibal.

“I do not think Hannibal Lecter means well to anyone,” Bedelia persists.

“He does when it comes to you,” Osiris states shortly, the words sinking deeply within Bedelia’s heart with unforeseen jubilation.

Any further discussion is interrupted by their return to the clamorous merriment of the party. The voices are much louder now that most of the bottles of bubbly have been emptied. The lights seem brighter too in their flashy festivity. Bedelia’s head begins to swirl afresh, but there is nothing pleasant about this sensation. It is time to call it a night, she decides firmly. There is nothing of interest for her here anyway.

_Not anymore._

She frowns as her mind ventures back to the rude interruption of mere minutes ago.

“Let’s return home,” Osiris concurs with her thoughts, once again standing protectively close to her side, his eyes sharp, his muscles tense.

They slowly manoeuvre their way across the floor, which proves harder now that the balance of many guests have been impaired.

“Are you leaving already, Doctor Du Maurier?” an unexpected voice stops Bedelia in her tracks just as she reaches the door.

She turns to find Mrs Harte, still lurking close to the entrance and surveying the flow of the guests. Yet her eyes, shining jubilantly, indicate that she too has been enjoying the excess of the party. Her daemon pug’s head dips low off the side of her shoulder. He gives a sudden jerk up when he notices Osiris, looking down at him with trepidation.

“I am feeling unwell,” Bedelia responds, not entirely untrue.

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,” the woman steps closer to Bedelia, her daemon’s head begins to dip anew, “Have you eaten something that was off?” she enquires further, her voice full of false concern while her eyes give Bedelia’s petite frame an opposite assessment.

“No,” Bedelia replies calmly, “But I did have some champagne. Perhaps that was off.”

She watches with satisfaction as the woman’s face turns ashy white, a hue rather fitting to her evening’s theme.

“It was a delightful evening,” Bedelia smiles at the shame-stricken woman, “Merry Christmas.”

And without waiting for her to reply, she leaves the hall. Osiris lets out a soft growl of content as they walk.

The days that follow pass in tranquillity as Bedelia avoids any further holiday engagements, having had her share of the jolliness. Her phone remains silent apart from numerous messages from her sister; Bedelia puts an end to them with a decisive turn down of the invitation. Osiris looks at her sceptically each time she glances at the lifeless phone; even if she has expected anyone else to call her, she will not let herself dwell on the notion.

On the day of Christmas Eve, Bedelia stays within the quiet care of her home, a stack of articles at ready as a distraction for her mind. But she does not really need it; she does not regret declining her sister’s invitation, quite the contrary, she feels strangely at peace with herself. And Osiris, reclining lazily at the foot of the sofa, seems to agree.

The sun is already ending its short journey across the sky, the shadows of dusk falling swiftly on the snow-covered landscape, turning the white into gleaming grey, when the front door’s bell rings unexpectedly. Osiris’ head lifts in instant alert; Bedelia has not anticipated any visitors. She quickly places a robe on top of her overly domestic attire and makes her way downstairs, trying to guess the identity of the uninvited visitors. It might be carollers, she concludes, even though it is unlikely; she cannot see why they would approach her, deprived of Christmas lights, house. Her brow furrows as she reaches the hallway; whoever that is she will be rid of them soon. Osiris walks in front of her, his steps silent as always, his body taut as if ready to pounce on the undesired visitor.

Bedelia unlocks the door and Osiris peaks through the opening first, his stance relaxing at once. Her confusion rising, Bedelia looks outside herself.

“Hannibal?” she startles, “What are you doing here?” She looks at her patient standing on her doorstep, a wide smile on his lips, a heap of snow circulating behind him while a growing layer of white covers his coat and settles on his hair.

“Did you drive in this weather?” a further realisation makes her even more stunned.

Several snowflakes land on his daemon’s nose and she shakes her head to be to free of them.

“May I come in?” Hannibal asks timidly, ignoring her questions.

Confused, Bedelia does not move, but Osiris takes two steps back and she follows. Smiling anew, Hannibal brushes the snow off his shoulders and steps inside.

“It is not as dire as it looks,” he addresses her worry as Austėja walks in behind him, shrugging the flakes off her fur.

Bedelia continues to glare at her patient; he still has not answered her first question. A gush of wind whirls through the open door, making Bedelia shiver; she pulls the robe closer around her. Hannibal turns and closes the door at once, then hesitates, hand lingering on the frame with uncertainty as the gesture might be consider too forward. He looks at her as if asking her belated permission.

“Why are you here, Hannibal?” she asks anew, suddenly irked by his familiarity.

“You said you might not be spending the holidays with your family,” he says, turning to face her once more, “I thought you might enjoy some company.”

“ _Some_ company?” she presses on, her eyes still burning fiercely with pique.

“My company,” he admits, somehow shyly.

“How did you know I had not accepted the invitation after all?” she enquires.

“I did not know,” he turns more bashful, his daemon’s tail curling around her legs.

Bedelia’s annoyance evaporates almost as quickly as it arose.

_He drove all this way without knowing if she were even home._

“I will leave if it is an imposition,” he concludes when she remains silent.

“No,” she responds at once, “You should not be driving while it’s snowing so heavily,” she adds, trying to deflate her eagerness. Osiris’ ears perk up in soundless scrutiny of her attempt.

The smile reappears on Hannibal’s lips, blooming more joyous than ever, and Austėja’s tail lifts up again with instant animation.

“I shall go change,” Bedelia clutches her robe tighter around her chest, suddenly aware of her less than cultivated attire.

“There is no need,” Hannibal stops her at once with a gentle wave of his hand, “You should be comfortable in your own home.”

Despite her words, deeming her outfit unimportant, his eyes linger on her as though it were the most exquisite couture he has even seen on her.

“But maybe you would like to warm up,” he ventures.

Bedelia’s stare turns sharp-edged again with merited scepticism.

“I know I would,” he reaches to the bag on his shoulder, one she has not noticed before and takes out an unlabelled bottle with a ruby liquid flowing within. The cork and twine on its top indicate a homemade concoction.

“Mulled wine,” he explains, seeing her puzzled expression, “My own recipe,” he beams proudly.

Bedelia relaxes, intrigued by his offering. Osiris steps forward, his paw reaching out to brush the remaining snowflakes off Austėja’s head.

“This way,” Bedelia inclines her head in accord, extending her arm to guide him to the kitchen.

Despite knowing the path, Hannibal keeps a polite distance, not wanting to repeat his previous misstep.

Once they enter the kitchen, he removes his coat, drapes its evenly across the back of a chair and immediately sets to his task. Without prompting, he finds an appropriate pan and places it on the stove, appearing more at ease in her kitchen that she has ever been. Bedelia tries not to focus on that recognition. Soon, an enticing aroma of cloves, cinnamon and orange permeates the air. Bedelia inhales deeply, enjoying the comforting notes swirling around her; Osiris moves closer to Austėja, observing Hannibal’s work. Her gaze is soft, and her stance relaxed, reflecting Hannibal’s enjoyment of the undertaking. It soothes her daemon in a process and Bedelia feels it too, in a profound clarity of her thoughts.

Hannibal brings the liquid to its desired temperature and removes the pan just before the wine starts boiling. Bedelia continues to watch him with delectation; it is the simplest of tasks, but his graceful gestures make it a real pleasure to behold. She is about to point him to the location of glasses but stops herself; she would rather see his effortlessness in finding his way around her kitchen at work again. As she expected, he finds them instantly, without any help. Bedelia smiles and Osiris draws his ears forward, eyelids lowering with content.

The wine is promptly transferred into two glasses, inviting steam rising from their brim in all its promise of comfort.

“Should we sit down?” he asks, more shyly again, now that he stepped out of his safe area of expertise.

“Yes,” she responds, her mind starting to warm up as much as her body.

They move to the living room where the remains of a forgotten fire dwindle in the fireplace.

“May I?” Hannibal motions to the dying flames and Bedelia nods in agreement.

She watches with a growing tremble of her heart as Hannibal sees to another domestic task with equal facility. The room is instantly bathed in orange glow of a fresh fire, crackling with quiet merriment. Bedelia sits down on a sofa and Hannibal follows, careful to keep to his corner, while their daemons stretch out in front of the fire, sitting side by side.

“This is delicious, thank you,” she savours her drink, feeling the combined warmth of the alcohol and fire sinking deeply within her.

“You require one more thing,” Hannibal says with a mysterious grin then reaches for his bag again.

Eyes widening, Bedelia watches as he takes out an ornamented box, removes its lid and presents her with a selection of cookies, all perfectly decorated with intricate swirls of gold.

“Cookies?” she cannot help but smile, “I have not taken you for an aficionado of holiday bakes.”

“They are for dipping in wine,” he explains, not discouraged by her assessment, then takes a piece to demonstrate.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Bedelia studies him as he soaks the cookie in his glass, then bites into the morsel with gusto, a sight as unusual as it is endearing. Hannibal offers her the plate and she grasps a cookie, tentatively following his lead.

A dip and a bite change Bedelia’s mind; she hums in appreciation of the flavour, spices, sugar and alcohol all melding together in a faultless union.

Hannibal’s head tilts in wordless question.

“You were right, a strangely fitting pairing,” Bedelia agrees, not a sentiment that comes easily to her. But the increasing warmth slowly lowers her usually impassable guard.

“As the best pairings are. Ones that are not considered to work well together at first glance and yet, they do. Perfectly,” Hannibal responds, smiling in delight.

His words, and all their possible implications, linger between them as they continue to sample their drinks in silence. The daemons in front of the fireplace sprawl further, Austėja reclining right behind Osiris. Bedelia senses her cheeks burning and knows it has little to do with the wine. The fire and the aroma of the spices carry on casting their charm on the room, making it feel almost festive.

_Almost._

“I apologise for the lack of decorations,” Bedelia says, suddenly self-aware of her lack of holiday spirit.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” Hannibal reassures, “That is not what is important,” he pauses, “That is not why I am here.”

“Hannibal-,” she begins her habitual line of protest, but falling back on the usual defences seems redundant in this moment.

Outside the window, the snow continues to fall in heavy flakes, resembling feathers, settling in a thick blanket over Bedelia’s garden, sealing them away in the growing geniality. The cosiness makes her realise how cold her house felt before. And how strangely pleasant this feels. The cats move closer to each other, entwining their tails together. Any words she could utter feel of no consequence with their souls coming together with such ease.

She swallows the rest of her objection, focusing her eyes on the glass as if searching for answers in the simmer of the wine. When she raises her gaze, she finds Hannibal looking at her with peculiar tenderness.

“I find it hard to believe you had no invitations for tonight,” she says instead, retreating to the safety of casual inquiry.

“I did. Several in fact,” this time, Hannibal looks at his glass with unwarranted interest, twirling the stem between his fingers. “But I would rather spend the evening with you,” he discards the glass on a side table and opens his bag one more time.

Before Bedelia takes a chance to reconsider her disapproval, he takes out a small, flat parcel.

“Merry Christmas, Bedelia,” he places the package on the table in front of her.

“Hannibal, you shouldn’t have,” she says at once, but her heart gives an unforeseen jolt against her rib cage, eyes darting towards the offering.

“It is nothing,” he smiles at her, the almost shy, boyish expression she has seen before. She finds it charming; it makes her chest tighten further.

“It is unorthodox,” she tries to oppose one last time.

“I do not think there is anything common about you,” he says with conviction. “About us,” his gaze becomes apprehensive; all the cards of his heart out in the open for her to sweep through.

“Thank you,” Bedelia responds, her voice timid, her own feelings brimming too close to the surface of her heart, “I do not have anything for you.”

“You have given me more than enough,” Hannibal’s eyes light up now that she has accepted his offering.

Bedelia’s hand slides over the gift, wrapped in brown paper embellished with intricate imprints of leaves, topped with a red ribbon and a pine branch.

“Did you decorate the paper yourself?” she asks, fingers following the pattern in silent admiration.

“Yes. My mother always insisted on hand made wrappings,” he proclaims, proud of being able to sustain his family’s tradition, “She said is made it more special.”

Bedelia finds her hand almost trembling as she unties the knot. She has never given much thought to gifts and she has certainly never received one so beautifully presented. Ears up, Osiris lifts his head, abandoning the comfort of his position for a burst of curiosity.

Bedelia opens the paper wrapping and gasps. Her eyes fall on a drawing of her and Osiris surrounded by a frame of carved wood. The drawing is breathtaking, the details rendered with spectacular accuracy; a recreation of their appearance at the party, her standing in the white dress, Osiris sitting by her side, but no additional embellishments to distort the image.

“She also insisted on hand made presents,” Hannibal adds quietly, visibly moved by her reaction.

“Hannibal-” she tries to speak but words perish on her tongue. “This is incredible,” she manages to utter. Her fingertips trace the lines of the drawing with utmost delicacy as though the image would disappear under a more decisive press.

“I meant when I said you should not be forced into being someone you are not,” he offers in the same hushed tone, “You should be celebrated for who you are,” he clears his throat, gathering his courage, “You are exquisite.”

His daemon marks his words further; Austėja rubs her head affectionately against Osiris’ side, making him roll onto his back with trust and gladness.

Bedelia’s heart thumps so loudly in her ears, she is certain Hannibal must hear it too. She is not able to stop looking at the image; this is how he sees her poured out onto a page with meticulous care. She is used to people finding her, and her daemon, intimidating, and she is always torn between disregard and defiance. But this image displays her and Osiris as nothing but unabashed in their power. And it is beautiful. Their eyes deep and fearless, a woman and her daemon, seemingly so unalike yet so complete together.

“Thank you,” the rudimentary words are barely fitting to what she feels, but she is suddenly lost for any other.

Her gaze lifts from the drawing and falls on Hannibal, her eyes swimming in a deluge of sentiments. She sees him leaning forward ever so slightly, lips parted, as if ready to kiss her. Yet he makes no attempt to do so. It could be that he is waiting for an incentive. Bedelia almost chuckles remembering the circumstances of their previous kiss.

“I am afraid there is no mistletoe here,” she smiles at him, carefully setting the gift aside.

“Do we need one?” he asks cautiously, straightening his posture and pulling his feelings back behind the safe cover of his veil, taking her words for a denial.

“No,” she tilts her head, somehow taken by his coyness.

Hannibal looks at her with confusion, but she does not give him a chance to react as she shifts closer and presses her lips against his. She breaths him in with all his tantalising warmth and comfort, one she has been denying herself. And it feels just as right as it felt at the party. Her hand cradles his cheek, then moves to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. She hears him letting out a soft purr, so much like his daemon, and kisses him with more intensity.

His startle lasts barely a second then he returns the kiss with as much fervour, yet despite his obvious want each press of lips is a conscious caress, a wordless confession of affection. Bedelia’s mind slides in a sweet oblivion and for once in her life, she does not fight to regain her control, falling deeper into the sensation with each move of their lips, their bodies falling in flawless unity just like their souls have.

They are both gasping for air by the time the kiss ends. Their daemons remain curl up together, Osiris' head resting protectively on top of Austėja's. The jaguar tilts his head towards the door and the stairs beyond, as though the daemons have already decided on an obvious continuation of the evening.

“Since you have no plans,” she speaks, regaining her breath, intoxicated by the ardour and brazen in expressing her usually hidden needs, “perhaps you would like to spend Christmas _with me_.”

Her eyes burn as she meets his, the clear intent of her invitation reflected within them. Hannibal’s eyes ignite in exhilaration, his fire matching hers, his wildest hopes exceeded.

“Yes,” he whispers as if afraid any louder sound would break the charm and shatter the moment.

Bedelia smiles and presses herself forward, kissing him afresh, all restrains forgotten. They lie down together on the sofa, locked in a passionate caress while their daemons purr contentedly in a warm embrace of their own.

Holiday time has never felt so wonderful to Bedelia before. It appears that some traditions are worth cultivating.

**Author's Note:**

> It is finally finished! I was planning to have it done for Christmas but that sadly did not work out for me. I hope you can still enjoy a bit of seasonal fluff. Thank you for reading!  
> The concept of daemons comes of course from Sir Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" and "Book Of Dust" series which I cannot recommend enough to those who have not read it.
> 
> Belated happy birthday to k! ♥ Thank you so much for the idea and letting me use your daemons.


End file.
